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When I met with the tour director, I questioned him about Numgal, who had been assigned to be my trekking guide. I was assured he was very experienced and that I would enjoy his company. This was welcomed news but the detail I had not foreseen was the trek would be vegetarian. We would have eggs, but no meat or chicken. This made no sense to me since I had been surrounded by sheep and cows for the last five days. He explained that out in the countryside there was no one who was going to slaughter any animal because they were practicing Buddhists and all the Muslims who did this kind of work were only in Leh. The solution seemed simple, we would bring meat with us and even though there were no coolers available in Leh, I was assured whatever we brought could keep for two days.

Numgal and the driver picked me up at 12:00 with the van loaded down with all of our supplies. But before leaving town, we still had to purchase a few items. Numgal wanted to place each of my bags in a large sack which would protect them from the dust and make them easier to load onto the donkeys. He needed the large plastic sacks used to hold rice. Remember nothing goes to waste here, so we had no trouble locating the used sack merchant who was doing a brisk business on the sidewalk. We bought what was needed and looked for the dried fruit seller. We found an old man sitting on the sidewalk behind burlap sacks filled with various fruits and nuts. Ladakh is famous for apricots and even though his apricots were covered in flies, Numgal assured me they would be very delicious when he stewed them up with his special spices. The old man wrapped them up in newspaper as there are no plastic shopping bags in Ladakh and I guess styrofoam is a long way off. Next stop was a small grocery store not much wider than a narrow hallway. The shop keeper sat on a stool in the middle of his shop and was capable of reaching most anything you requested. We stocked up on canned tuna fish and detergent for the dishes and I suggested Pringles. Pringles must be truly global as I have found them most everywhere I have traveled and they are always flavored to suit the local taste. This is India and the flavor was curry. We bought four large bottles of water and Numgal assured me there would be bottled water for sale where we were going. But I was rather disconcerted when I found out that bottled water was not available in small bottles because I had been counting on two small bottles to carry on the trek. Hopefully, I would solve this problem later.

Numgal was ready to leave when I suggested we buy lamb chops, as I could already taste lamb roasted over a wood fire. I wondered why the driver pulled into a parking lot until I saw the lot was lined with butchers in small stalls. These were the Muslim butchers, the only ones who do the “dirty work”. Each butcher displayed the head of an animal, signifying the type of meat he sold. We went to a stall featuring the head of a sheep. The butcher was wearing his skull cap, sitting on a small bed and the size of his shop was a small closet. I told Nugmal we did not want meat from the large carcass which was hanging up, because we wanted baby lamb. I pointed t o my ribs and Numgal asked him for lamb chops. Still sitting on his bed, the butcher rummaged around in a small box, which definitely was not a frozen food locker, and came up with a small leg of lamb. Accepting that, he placed it on his chopping board, smeared with the fat of many other pieces of meat, and hacked it into small pieces. With our parcel wrapped up in newspaper, we were now ready to leave Leh. As we walked away, I noticed two small lamb heads thrown into a bucket but in Buddhist talk, I did not feel I was spiraling down to barbarism.

In Ladakh, the merchants are either Moslems from the Kashmir or Indians. Both groups have had centuries to hone their trading skills while the Ladakhi people remained farmers. However, in the city, since the Ladakhi people were there first, they are the landlords and the Moslems and Indians, who always feel superior to the gentle Ladakhis, are the renters.

HEADING TO THE TREKING SITE

As we left Leh, the driver passed a convoy of Army troops on maneuvers. For the entire two weeks I spent in Leh, along with the mountains and the monasteries, we would continue to see the army presence. At times it appeared that the entire area is one large army outpost. The road leading out of Leh was a perfectly good paved four lane highway, which at times even had lines painted down the middle. But this kind of road is just a teaser because soon we found ourselves on a thinly paved 1 ½ lane road which pared down to a two lane highway, deteriorating on either side, like a decaying tooth. My driver was taking it easy, allowing my heart to stay out of my mouth as vans full of trekkers and Tata trucks passed us at will.

An hour out of town we stop at a bus stop for lunch. There were several small restaurants to choose from and by looking at the cooking pots, you could tell the type of food available. Large bamboo steaming baskets were filled with momos, the Tibetan dumpling, large pots contained noodle soup, and a man with a wok was frying up crispy Indian treats. Since we would be walking for the next five days, I did not want to upset the stomach gods and was very happy to eat from the lunch box the Deskit Guest House had been providing. Nothing could be safer than a hardboiled egg, a boiled potato, something that has been masquerading as bread, and a banana, with its usual dark spots. But they always remembered the salt and pepper.

Second rule of travel, after never take the first room, is to never pass up an offered toilet and always have your pockets stuffed with tissues, as you never know. I followed Numgal behind the bus station where he pointed to a one story brick tower located in the middle of a construction site. Attached to the building was a sign with the word “toilet” and an arrow pointing upward. I thought the direction was wrong but after walking around the building and not finding a door, I realized, as per the tour book, I was to climb up the crudely constructed ladder and seek the toilet on the roof. Just as the tour book described, I found a hole in the middle of the sandy covered floor. Then I got to experience a Ladakhi dry toilet. Once again, nothing here goes to waste and all the deposits are collected and turned into fertilizer.

Back up on the two lane, we still had a two hour drive to our camp site. Soon I noticed two ladies walking along the road spinning their prayer wheels. When I have a driver and guide and lots of space, I am always willing to pickup people walking, especially women. We stopped and offered them a ride. The younger woman was hesitant but after Numgal’s gentle coaxing and a not too subtle push from the older woman, the two women made themselves very comfortable in the back of the van. They accepted the food left in my lunch box. They enjoyed the juice and the bread, but had a little difficulty eating the candy bar because they did not possess two opposing teeth. I asked Numgal to find out their story and where they were going. This was a mother-in-law and she was taking her daughter-in-law to a monastery to make an offering so that she would finally have a grandchild, preferably a boy. The mother-law-law said she was tired of waiting. They had tied wishes to trees, they had visited a shaman, and this was the last opportunity. Maybe we earned a little merit as we drove them for around 1 ½ hours before depositing them at the monastery. Thirty minutes later, we pulled into the camp site. Dorje, the donkey man, was there waiting for us with his four donkeys tethered to the fence.

AT THE CAMP SITE

The camp site was actually a gravel parking lot in front of a guest house and when given the option of sleeping in a tent or in one of their rooms, I opted for the room, especially since there would be enough opportunity later for sleeping in a tent. Leaving Numgal and Dorje in the parking lot, an old woman, dressed in traditional clothing, led me to my room. I was happy to have the room and this was not the kind of place to refuse the first room hoping for better. The charge was four dollars for the night and one dollar extra for breakfast, but it was agreed that Numgal would provide breakfast. This was a family run guest house, catering to trekkers and similar ones can be found all over Ladakh. A small sign advertised en suite bathrooms and even though it was Turkish style (a squatter in the floor) it was inside and I was not much troubled by the sink, which was not quite attached to the wall and lacked faucets, because I knew the shower by bucket was just a boiler away. In lieu of electricity, I found an assortment of used candles. I located my flashlights and laid out my sheet, blanket, and pillow, ready for an evening without much light.

Dinner was scheduled at 7:30 in the parking lot. This gave me plenty of time to read and make notes on the day’s happenings. Also, I was interested in meeting the women whose laundry was drying on the clothes line. The sun was too hot to allow me to sit in the garden and I retreated to the shade of the porch. The prayer flags were fluttering from the roof as the breeze was sending prayers to heaven and a shaggy dog was content to sleep at my feet. The only sound was the tinkling of a wind chime and once again I silently slipped into the arms of a serene moment. At 4:00 I looked up to see Numgal approaching. He was carrying a large tray, announcing it was time for tea time. What a surprise, tea on the veranda, by the side of the garden, even if it was a little over grown. The tea pot was full of loose tea and he had provided a proper tea strainer, a bowl of sugar, a tea cup, and a plate of cookies which he had artfully arranged. The surroundings may not have looked five star, but the service certainly was.

The women, who belonged to the laundry returned , and carrying my plate of cookies, I went up to introduce myself. Suzy, Doris, and another Doris were from Switzerland and had been trekking by themselves for the last five days, sleeping in guest houses. I marveled at the large backpacks they were carrying. They told me they had an easy day because they had met Dorje on the trail and the donkeys had carried their packs. I asked them how they were doing without a guide. The reply was they had a map and when they were not sure which path to take, they just guessed. They had been visiting the nearby monastery and saw two women praying before a large Buddha. I suspected these were the two women we had dropped off. We swapped travel stories and impressions of Ladakh and I think they enjoyed my conversation as they were getting a little bored with each other. They were eating dinner in the guest house and we agreed I would join them after my dinner.

DINNER AT CHEZ NUMGAL

Numgal had spent the day setting up his “field kitchen” and even though I did not smell the longed for aromas of lamb sizzling on an open fire, I had no idea of the experience awaiting me. Both men had changed their shirts, and like a maitre’d in a fine restaurant, Dorje ushered me to a table and chair, which they must have borrowed from the guest house. They had also borrowed a table cloth, placed a flower in a drinking glass, and lit several candles.

The first course was a tasty split pea soup, made from a packaged soup mix that Numgal had enhanced with various spices. Then he presented his lamb dish. He had turned the chunks of meat into a fantastic stew, accompanied by a thick tomato, mushroom sauce. There was a side dish of dal (lentils) served over rice plus sauteed cauliflower. For dessert, he had prepared the apricots, and he was right, they were very delicious. Dinner was concluded with a cup of cardamom tea. The evening was borderline surreal. I had enjoyed one of the best lamb stews I have ever had, a definite five star meal with five star service, under a sky filled with stars, in a gravel parking lot cum construction site, somewhere in up country Ladakh. Whatever Harvey was searching for, I think I found part of it that night. As far as merging time and space, I had no need to know the day of the week and my location, as pinpointed on a map, seemed irrelevant. The honesty and sincerity of the two guides, who could not do enough to make me comfortable, added to the wonder of the moment. If this kept up, I would soon be hearing the Buddhist sound of the void.

Even though Numgal started off shy and proved himself not much of a driver when he pulled out in front of that truck, he certainly excelled in the countryside and throughout the remaining week he was always smiling and maintained his sense of humor. Every meal Numgal cooked was exceptional and he did not have to worry about reigning in his culinary talents because early on I told him to cook the way he wanted because I enjoyed spicy food. His cooking equipment was limited to an old style pressure cooker, two pots, and a frying pan. His stove consisted of a one burner unit powered by kerosene. He proved to be a magician with vegetables, even those that would develop black spots, and what was not finished at dinner was artfully turned into something else for a later meal. Before he started cooking, he would line up his supply of spices, surrounding himself with boxes of salt, pepper, cumin, turmeric, coriander, and marsala mix, along with garlic and ass orted herbs, which he could only describe in his language. We did not have any tomatoes but he was able to turn Magi ketchup into delicious sauces. Numgal spoke enough English and understood more than he could speak but we never seemed to have any communication problems. Since I was in Buddhist country, I can say now that his skills unfolded like the petals of a lotus, and at the time I had no idea how important he was going to become to my well being.

Dorje appeared to be a happy man, always smiling and treating me as the honored guest. He brought his own small rolling pin and turned flour and water into delicious puris and chapatis. He was like the side kick and along with taking care of his donkeys, he helped Numgal and cleaned up after dinner. Dorje never stopped talking and telling jokes. Maybe this was a little tiring for Numgal, but Dorje probably needed to talk to someone other than his donkeys.

A VISIT TO A LADAKHI HOUSE

After dinner, I left Numgal straightening up and Dorje doing the dishes with water from a house. I was too far into this to worry about the quality of the water. Suzy, Doris, and Doris had invited me to join them for their dinner. We went to the family’s main house and were graciously received by a beautiful young woman, wearing a flight jacket, which I thought a little strange. We entered into a large downstairs room which was considered their ceremonial room, the place where they conducted religious ceremonies, weddings, coming of age parties, etc. We sat on banquettes with low tables in front of us, similar to that at the Deskit Guest house, and quickly became comfortable among the many pillows and bolsters. As in all traditional houses, an entire wall was dedicated to the family collection of cooking pots, teapots and bowls, large samovars, and assorted brick-a-brac, collected over the years. She said up to 500 people would be invited to their parties which included extended family and friends. The most unusual object was a plastic clock in the shape of a chorten(stupa) and on the hour it chanted out the mantra dedicated to Avalokiteshvara, god of compassion and mercy, om mani padme om, hail to the jewel in the lotus. Of course made in China and when I asked her if this was a way to earn merit, she laughed and said a little.

While we watched her making dough from barley flour and water, which would be boiled and turned into a kind of spretzel, she told us the story of her life. She was born in this area and had been able to go to Delhi to attend flight school. She wanted to be a pilot. Later her parents informed her they had arranged for her to be married to a local boy. Even though she was almost finished with her studies, she had to be a dutiful daughter. Abandoning her dream, she returned home. She had been married for five years. The husband was in Leh running a tour company and a computer store and even though she had almost made it out of there, she was now left behind to run the guest house owned by her in-laws. Her mother-in-law was a retired oracle. She was able to see into the future and when paid the right price, could offer insights from the beyond. As per the book I was reading, there are people in Ladakh who are able to go into a trance, make contact with the other side, and bring back information regarding the future or insights on how to deal with the present. When in a trance, they would be able to speak perfect Tibetan and of course not remember the language or anything else when the trance was over. Since she had her daughter-in-law to rely on, she was able to retire from her profession, claiming it was too exhausting. The father-in-law, when not driving a truck, had been an astrologer. But he too had retired from work and was content to cultivate his garden.

She was completely charming and it was a delightful evening. I said goodbye to the Swiss ladies. Coincidentally, we were all departing from Delhi on the same flight to Frankfurt and I promised to look for them at the gate. Returning to my room, I was surprised by the knock on the door. Opening the door, I found our dinner hostess offering me a bucket of hot water. The charm just continued. With all flashlights and candles burning, I became relatively clean. Wrapping up in my sheet and blanket, sleep found me just as soon as my head hit my Walgreen pillow. Tomorrow would we would start our trek.

After lunch, I decided to walk into town. When I opened the metal gate, decorated with the Buddhist eight spoked wheel, (one of the eight auspicious Buddhist signs representing the wheel of law, the dharma, the way to enlightenment announced by Buddha in this first sermon), the villa’s otherwise adorable puppy began barking. I do not know why he took acceptation to my leaving, but I was tired of reading Harvey’s book and being motivated by my mantra, nothing happens when you stay in your room, I wanted to see firsthand what he had been relating. I was also interested in how my acclimating was progressing. I turned left onto the gravel road and it was downhill all the way to town. By this time the early morning chill was a distant memory and the sun was striking with laser force at anything it could reach. Walking on the extreme side of the road, I sought the shade of the popular trees lining the water canals which flowed down each side of the road.

I walked through a neighborhood of large Ladakhi style houses, similar to my guest house, and each had a metal gate with an attached Buddhist auspicious symbol. They seemed to favor the conch shell, used to announce the advent of Buddha’s enlightenment and the endless knot, an expression of never ending eternity. Over their stone wall enclosures, I could see orderly terraced fields, extending to the base of the nearby mountain. Juvenile shoots of barley, wheat, and vegetables were being irrigated by water from melted snow flowing through ancient irrigation channels. Bundles of wheat, fodder for the animals, were stacked on the flat roofs and placed on the edges as a way to avoid caving in the roof. I followed a man herding a string of donkeys, yet without knowledge of how important a donkey man could be. As they meandered along, the donkeys were depositing newly minted dung and I knew it would be collected soon because nothing goes to waste here. As in rural India and many other developing countries, dung patties are left to dry and when they reach the proper consistency they are used for cooking fuel.

The vertical popular trees, the horizontal channels, and the grid pattern of the fields gave an order to the scene, especially when juxtaposed to the randomly placed surrounding mountains. There were orchards of apricot trees and apple trees with their fruit just beginning to bud. I passed a large prayer wheel set within a new concrete shrine. The prayer wheel looked like a large oil drum painted red and embossed with gold plates. Spinning a prayer wheel while chanting certain mantras is another way to earn merit and in Tibetan Buddhist societies it is not unusual to see people, especially old women, walking and spinning their prayer wheels. Further along, a row of small prayer wheels had been erected alongside the road which made it easy for someone passing to step over, spin a few wheels and chalk up more merit on their ledger sheet. As I passed, several women stopped their spinning to shout “juley, juley”, the Ladkahi all purpose greeting of hello, how are you, and may Buddha bless you. In the two weeks I spent in Ladakh, I continued to marvel at the friendliness of the local people. They were kind, considerate, and thoroughly without guile.

The street was peaceful, rushing water, chirping magpies with only the passing of the occasional car. The sounds of children playing could be heard behind the low stone walls and when they saw me they waved and shouted out “juley juley”. Soon I got into the swing of things and passing a group of young women with their babies strapped to their backs smacking their laundry on stones alongside the stream, all of us smiled, waved, and shouted out “juley, juley”.

I passed an enormous Tata trucks parked on the side of the road. Built in India by the fabulously wealthy Tata family, these heavy duty trucks are the ubiquitous goods carry for the entire Himalayan region. They are always trimmed with an excessive amount of chrome and decorated with inlaid multicolored chrome panels, dangling chains, and metal cut out hearts. Brightly colored tinsel is usually draped across the windshields. These trucks are always painted with religious images, which to the Western aesthetic appears garish and over the top. The Hindu driver requires images of his gods, which usually include Lakshimi, the goddess of wealth and her consort Vishnu, the god who creates the world when he is in the mood. But I am in a Buddhist country and these trucks are painted with images of Buddha and his eight auspicious signs. Horns from what must have been a very large bull had been placed on the front grille, along with chrome thunder bolts. The word “welcome” was stenciled across the top of the cab and on the back, bold black letters spell out “good luck”, something truly needed when this behemoth, decorated as a traveling carnival, passes you on a narrow mountain road.

As I rounded the bend in the road, I saw, perched on the top of a barren hill, the old abandoned royal palace, which had actually functioned as a fort. A path zig zaged up the hill and from the fort another path led to a monastery on an adjacent hill. A young monk was walking down the path and I noticed he was wearing a wearing a red fleece Nike zip up vest over his traditional robe with a matching ball cap covering his shaved head. When I look more closely at the hill, I realized the monastery was sharing its sacred location with a cell phone tower. At its core, Ladakh is a Buddhist country but its defining characteristic maybe a paradox. Its orderly, seasonally oriented traditional society, based upon religion, community, and family, is in the process of being assaulted by the outside world. For a people who had lived with a subsistence, barter economy, modernity is chipping away at the edges. They may still store wheat and neatly stacked twigs on their roofs and fly Buddhist prayer flags but room has been made for the satellite dish. The old man I saw sitting near the prayer wheels held his rosary beads in one hand and his cell phone in the other. I passed several old women trudging up the hill, their dark faces deeply lined from hard work and so many years under the unforgiving sun. Even though they were wearing the traditional Tibetan dress with their black hair in the traditional braid hanging down to their waist, they had exchanged their handmade pointed leather slippers for a pair of sturdy tennis shoes. Instead of the traditional woven basket they used to carry on their backs, which was suitable for carrying fire wood, they now wore backpacks. Of course I wondered where they planned to place the wood. A tennis court, which they advertise as the world’s highest, is located between a stand of prayer wheels and a chorten. (In the valley they have built the world’s highest golf course. I suspect playing in the desert would make it hard to recognize the sand traps and since there is no grass, the “greens” are just tightly packed sand.)

Ladakh is experiencing a period of transition and many western sociologists and anthropologies mourn the passing of the old ways. When a young man leaves the farm to seek employment in Leh, leaving behind only the old people, women, and children to do the work, they decry the breakdown of the traditional family unit. Since young people prefer pop music, they lament the loss of traditional folk tunes. Traditional story tellers, who roamed from village to village entertaining people, are finding it hard to compete with TV and this is described as the loss of the oral tradition.

Is the traditional spirit of Ladakh being altered or is it just the external manifestations which are changing? Are they buying into the entire package of Western civilization with its angst, competition, and material culture or are they just selectively picking that which they can use? Why is it wrong for a culture to adapt to the manifestations of the modern world which are arriving every day? Andrew Harvey was using Buddhism as a way out of modernism, but were the people of Ladakh going the opposite direction and abandoning Buddhism for modernism? Maybe they were just using modernism for its entertainment value.

Because my sampling of people would be too small to form any kind of opinion, I only hoped for the best. But I know enough to realize that Western NGO’s (non governmental organizations) have to spend their donors’ money and not always do it in the most culturally sensitive manner. Several years ago an NGO in Ladakh observed women working in the fields with their babies strapped to their backs. Thinking this was not good for the mothers, they set up nurseries and encouraged the mothers to drop off their babies before going to work. Today, the nurseries stand abandoned because no self respecting Ladakhi mother would separate herself from her baby. I met a very nice traveler from the Czech Republic who told me he was only interested in traveling to places that did not yet have electricity and when he could turn on the lights, he would seek out another country. I understand where he was coming from, but what about the people themselves? Would he be happy to find the people sitting in the dark singing folk tunes?

I had almost reached the town, still feeling good, but thinking about the walk back up the hill, I decided to head back to the villa and explore Leh another time. I arrived at the guest house with no problems and picking up my book, reclaimed my seat on the balcony. The mountains were just where I left them, giant peaks reaching up to impale the sky. But time had passed and now clouds had intruded into my landscape painting and as the wind picked up, they were sent scudding through the sky. Those clouds hiding behind the mountain encouraged me to wonder what was going on back there and as an engaged viewer, I was obligated to use my imagination to complete the action that lies outside the picture frame.
At 3:30 the sun refused to be snuffed out and outwitting the accumulating clouds, it managed to shine down on me with such intensity that I was forced to pick up my book, papers, and water and flee to the shade. Time passed and the late afternoon light, coordinating with setting sun, slowly passed over the mountains, forcing my cosmic artist to select another color palette. As if wielding a wide brush, he turned the previous light green mountains into somber shades of purple. The delicate light turned misty and the darkening sky smudged out all the details, turning the mountains into back lit silhouettes. Clouds massed over the mountains and in my spiritual mood their tops seemed to float in a vaporous bath.

The setting sun allowed the chill to return and I realized I had spent my first day in Ladakh desiring nothing more than to be surrounded by serenity and beauty. Harvey was seeking that Buddhist place where time and desire dissolved. As for me, I was thinking about dinner and wondering if that group of Frenchmen had brought any wine. Later, I met with the tour operator and received some interesting details. So let the trekking begin, I think.

When I landed in Delhi, I was informed that my arrival had been well planned because a record breaking heat wave, hovering for days at 114 degrees, had just broken. Yes, I guess I was a lucky traveler to arrive when the temperature had just cooled off to a humid 95 degrees. Early summer is not the best time to be in Delhi but it is the optimum time to be in mountainous Ladakh. By early fall, there is the possibility of snow storms closing the mountain passes, tucking all those inside into a wintry wonderland of eight months of temperatures remaining below freezing.

After several days in Delhi, where I was able to enjoy a tour with Dr. Tillotson, an author and well known expert on Mughal India, I boarded a 6:00AM Jet Airways flight to Leh, the capital of Ladakh. Due to the fact that Ladakh shares a border with the Kashmir, the area of long time Muslim and Hindu conflict, the security at the airport was very tight and controlled by the army. Even though I passed through security upon entering the airport, each passenger was once again thoroughly searched at the gate. We were placed in small curtained off cubicles, the women to one side the men to the other, and padded down in places I do not want to think about. For security reasons, we had to step outside the terminal to identify our luggage and I am sure that which was not claimed was left behind. Upon returning to the gate, we were ordered back into the cubicles and searched one more time. Based upon previous experience, I was expecting them to confiscate my stash of batteries. I did not have to wait long until I saw them emptying my flashlights and collecting my back up stock. Ignoring my protest that this was not acceptable, the security guard stuffed the batteries into a reused paper bag. Handing me a reused claim check, he told me not to worry as I could pick them up in the airport at Leh. All I could think about was how long the nights could be in a tent without something to read.

As I looked around the waiting area, I noted we were a rather diverse group. There were backpackers of various ages toting immense, newly minted backpacks and an assortment of lost in Asia, neo hippy types with hair in dreadlocks, wearing vintage 1960ish beads. Into this mix was a group of enthusiastic high school kids from an international school in Singapore on a field trip. There was the usual coterie of do-gooder NGO’s attached to their brief cases and groups of Ladakhi people loaded down with large bundles wrapped in burlap. All that was missing were live chickens. The plane was completely full because the flight the day before had been cancelled due to a sand storm. The airport at Leh, along with many other airports in India, is without instrument landing systems, forcing the pilots to land by sight alone. If the weather is bad, the pilots cannot see, the planes do not land.

I was happy to be flying Jet Airways, my favorite Indian airline. It is privately owned, now flies to JFK Airport in New York and I have been told their pilots do not have to check their astrological charts before they take off, a problem I have experienced in the past. I believe their service rivals that of Singapore Airlines
and by the time I finished a delicious breakfast of Indian specialties, accompanied by a steaming pot of tea, the pilot announced our initial descent into the airport.

WHAT DOES IT LOOK LIKE?

Just a short time out of Delhi, the landscape turned into desert valleys, like a giant sand box for the gods, enclosed by snow capped mountains. From my vantage point 30,000 feet high, this combination majestically extended to the horizon. In a manner similar to that which created the more famous Himalayan Mountains, the mountains of Ladakh were created when the earth’s tectonic plates, bored by standing still, thought it would be fun to crash into each other. This violent birthing process tossed these mountains up in a random manner and due to their relative youth, geologically speaking, they still have rough edges, jagged peaks, and sharp ridges. From this altitude, they appeared completely barren with no sign of any kind of life. Since we were heading toward the land of spiritual enlightenment, below us I sensed a supernatural brightness as the intense sunshine illuminated the snow capped peaks. The sky above was a brilliant blue contrasting with various tones of desert brown below.

Descending fast, rugged ridge lines rose up to meet us before falling sharply away to form yet another valley. Then the plane leveled off and we seemed to be skimming over the mountaintops. Unexpectedly, the pilot turned the plane into a hard right turn and then again to a sharp left. Why were we rapidly changing directions, were we lost, was he searching for the landing strip? I had never seen mountains so close. Finally, I could see before us a wide desert valley dotted with square patches of green and my eyes were drawn into the distance, following a long green line snaking its way down from one of the mountains. This was the city of Leh, stretching itself out in all possible directions, stopping only when reaching the base of all the mountains creating this valley. Monasteries in most every direction were perched on the tops of high hills, their colorful prayer flags radiating outward.

With the smell of curry in the air and the sound of samosas frying, my thoughts have returned to India.

In early June 2007, I traveled in Ladakh, a mountainous state in northwest India. Even though India is primarily a Hindu country and the last remnants of Buddhism were sent packing by the Mughal (Muslim) invasion in the 16th, this area has maintained its Buddhist culture and the dominant religion is Tibetan Buddhism. In 1992 I had traveled in Tibet and years later I was still interested in returning to a place where the matters of the heart and spirit dominated that of the intellect. Along with visiting their fabled monasteries, I also wanted to go trekking. After spending over thirteen years working out in a gym, I was in a hurry to find out, before it was too late, what kind of shape I was really in. Because the travel agent I had been using specialized in 5 star hotels and posh travel, I roamed through the internet to find a company which specialized in adventure travel. This is when I discovered Tomas at Footloose Travel Guides. Unlike several other companies, he responded promptly to my initial request. Immediately, his knowledge, his professionalism, and his dedication to his clients became evident and this forged the basis of what has become over the past few years an excellent working relationship.

I turned the entire trip over to Tomas. He planned a two week program which included touring with car, driver, and guide to coincide with the religious festival held once a year in the monastery at Hemis. He also planned a four day trek. Because I knew I would be walking slowly, I did not want to join a group. He organized the trekking for one person that included a guide, donkeys to carry the supplies, plus someone to manage the donkeys. Everything would be provided and all I had to do was show up with a sleeping bag, a daypack, which at the time seemed simple, and whatever personal items I would require.

I kept wondering how to define a trek as opposed to a walk or a hike. I decided a walk was something you took around your neighborhood or to the mailbox and a hike was a longer walk, which usually included a mountain, but allowed you to return home the same day. Therefore, a trek had to be a hike that just continued and continued. In order to prepare, I supplemented afternoons in the gym with mornings in a spinning class and I practiced walking in my new hiking shoes. I hoped to survive the four days and was comforted by the promise that if I could not make it, all I had to do was phone and they would come pick me up. This left me wondering where I would find the phone, but all that came later.

Due to logic, which only makes sense to the airlines, it was cheaper to fly west on a round the world ticket than to fly east. According to my logic, it would be a wasted opportunity to fly so far without stopping somewhere along the way. With visions of kaiskei dinners, gardens, tea ceremonies, and the Ginza, I spent quality time in Tokyo and Kyoto before arriving in Delhi, the logical jumping off city for Ladakh.